Of Old Friends, Toys and Small Offences
by Singe Allerdyce
Summary: Lies hurt... but the truth kills. Marie contemplates how the truth relates to someone who's always had a more than flexible approach to it. Spoilers up to and including X3, Ryro if you squint


_Big thanks have to go to **l1bby**;, my faithful beta and real world more than best mate, for putting up with my ramblings and taking on the truly terrifying task of trying to keep me in check and make said ramblings into a semi-coherant fic. I swear Rogue lives in her head, and I think John may be moving into mine_

_**Disclaimer** Much to my eternal dismay I do not own these characters. I just take them out of the box now and then, play with them, and put them back a little more messed up hoping no one notices. They own my soul, but that's another matter entirely._

**It needn't have been this complicated. It's her own damn fault for making it that way**

Old friends become bitter enemies on a sudden for toys and small offences. (_Robert Burton_)

It wouldn't be enough just to _see,_ she tells herself, as if that's justification for what she's doing, unsure whether the fact that it's not a total lie makes things easier or much more difficult. He has _changed_, his build slighter than she remembers, the sharpness of his features more defined, though both of these could be blamed on the life of a fugitive. Gone are the brands of a posturing youth, the names of old bands he'd never really listened to emblazoned across a less toned chest, gone too the blonde streaks of his later, more sinister Bad Boy façade , reverting to their usual mousy tones (she guesses super villains on the run have more important needs than peroxide). The only real constant is his own constant fidgeting, though without that which he can't risk revealing this too could be easily dismissed. Nerves and withdrawal are both common enough among the drop outs he could so easily move amongst and, in their own way, both true of him.

There's one thing, though, that still singles him out amongst all other faces, something harsh and brittle in the back of his eyes which used to be called exotic and now points only to the lingering insanity she uses to rationalise his actions in her mind, though he's in there too and laughs madly at the idea – or would, if sullen smirking contempt wasn't so much more his style.

The kid she picks out in the line up is not St. John Allerdyce, wanted terrorist, crack arsonist and mutant extremist. But neither is the not-quite-man she stumbles into beneath the junk-shop menagerie of this tacky Cajun theme bar (she appreciates them so much less now his argument that hundred year old crap isn't 'antique', just really old and still crap, is sharing headspace).

"John?" – she still can't quite believe he's not dead, even after Bobby's assurances, much less accept that he's just walking the streets, almost like everyone else, and so technically still at large despite seeming so small.

"It's not John" he bites back, though the venom she remembers and can't help thinking that disproves the statement. "It's _Pyro_, Rogue."

"It's Marie"

She can't help noticing how lost he looks, putting it down to the absence of his lighter.. This she understands, watching him twist a straw between his fingers; after _The Incident_ at Bobby's she shared that need for a while, always had to have something to play with, getting an almost physical itch if she kept her hands still too long. She understands too why he can't risk a fix of the subtle click-click which makes up his usual soundtrack because he can't trust himself not to torch the joint – not from a desire to show off, as she'd first suspected, but just to watch it burn. All in all, though neither wants to admit it, she understands him fairly well, better than his intense hatred of any sort of introspection, and the voice telling him not to question, just to blaze regardless, will let him understand himself. Certainly better than to merit the look of utter distain he's giving her.

"Oh right, so it's like that" – he's rotating the straw now, between thumb and middle finger, pausing every so often with it poised like a cigarette, though his gaze is trained on her with the intensity he injects into everything. "You got your 'cure', then? Bet Test- … I mean, _Ice_-icle, is thrilled"

She doesn't like the tone he uses to talk about Bobby – her lover, though that relationship, if you could call it that, seems headed down the same road as his friendship with John. It's obvious he doesn't care, or does, but only because he's always enjoyed pissing her off. The reason for the bitterness – its utter necessity – is clear enough; Iceman has to be evil, else what is there to believe in any more? It's the same dehumanising (or in his case, re-humanising, taking them down to the level of all the other insects) tactic they've used about him, no doubt, the one that lets you think of your enemy as that and not as someone real, though the fact that he's still standing only highlights their inability to utilise it.

She wonders vaguely who might have put that idea into her head, and by a process of elimination arrives at Eric. Or Magneto, more likely, because Eric wouldn't have missed the glaringly obvious irony of his using that doctrine, becoming the thing that broke one, spawning the other.. She'll always think of them like that, two overlapping voices on the same track. A song which sends shivers down her spine because she can't help letting the backing singer break her heart more successfully than the lead vocals' stamping on it should allow. On that note, she can't help but ask whether Pyro's voice would drown out John's the same way, or whether they'd sing in only mildly discordant unison – and can't pretend she misses not being able to tell herself that now she'll never get the chance to find out.

It should have been so obvious; all drugs wear off sooner or later. All highs mellow out.

"It… didn't really work out" she mumbles eventually, the warm rich Mississippi mud words which come from looking in herself for once, not softened by Canadian anger and desperation, sharpened to Antipodean intensity, or marked by any of the travels she told herself she'd go on, tracing the lines on a map up on a bedroom wall as on the bed below someone tried to talk her out of it by tracing lines on her skin with his fingertips, on her tongue with his…

Gifted, sure. The Germans got one thing right at least; there _Gift_ means poison (funny how she's started doing that now, mixing their knowledge in her own voice without thinking about it). She didn't like the other possibility, that it was a second curse which denied her love, though the look in Bobby's eyes had made avoiding that theory a matter of conveniently ignoring rather than downright dismissing. _This isn't what I wanted…_

His eyes light up – oh God, what the hell did she say? She's praying he'll think she means her and Bobby. Knowing he never cared about that. Putting all her faith in how he's always taken it as a given that all relationships are just that last intake of breath before the scalpel descends and rends the meshing seams separate again (some days she stops pitying him for being broken, reminded how in his world it can be better to stay wounded than try to heal… then remembers how he's not the only one who has that view, and how the other hasn't abandoned them – well, not in the same way, never forever). His shrug and slow –burning sneer of a grin are almost enough to convince her that she's pulled it off.

"So it's not permanent then?" He's trying so hard not to care how she answers that one, which shouldn't be as difficult as it's turning out, given just good he is at apathy (Nothing's worth doing without passion, of course, at least not in his world, and so his indifference has always been weirdly fervent). She can't flatter herself by saying he cares either way what's befallen her (though how flattering it would be to be classed amongst those he gives a damn about it debatable, given what dubious company they'd make for) – his interest is plain enough; if Marie's died, then maybe Eric has too. And if Eric's dead, maybe it's time for a little resurrection.

About to answer yes, she finds she can't, for once grateful that they're no longer close enough that she can speak without thinking, that distance giving her time to back away instead of throwing herself over. Of course he never thought things through, even before, since right on the edge has always been his preferred habitat. He's not afraid to fall – survival seems to be another of his talents - though sometimes he thinks he'd like the feeling if he did… Come to think of it, she's not sure she's ever been careful what she said to him either. Probably because she never said that much, alternating between _silenced with a stare _and _unable to get a word in edgeways_. Whatever the reason – which she's not sure she should be looking for anyway – she's grateful that she stops just short; if she was the faithful kind, she'd say something had offered her some sort of answer to most of the _What if_'s still surrounding Pyro, John, or whoever he is now that both those lives seem to be over.

She can't be the one to tell him, that much is obvious. She drove him away before… Well, she played her part at least. It's too much to hope think that he'd do that much for any _one_ person. But the fact remains; he's gone once before, and part of her carries some little responsibility for that, even if it's only his voice (which, she assumes, like him can't say he made the choice himself because that would mean carrying guilt and it's not in him to regret anything) which tells her so.

_What if she doesn't tell him? _He'd probably find out sooner or later. _But if he doesn't know by now…_

She pauses just a second too long, thinks just a little too slowly to meet the demands of his conversation, having fallen out of practice. This should be a godsend – it stops her having to lie to him, and thereafter cope with all that means, and instead reassure herself that she can't help it if he can't tell himself the truth – but that doesn't make the way he's looking at her any easier to cope with.

"Just not for you, is that it?" She looks away, white streak falling forward and not-quite shielding her from the death glare he's trapped her in for taking away the hope that the one who gave her it might just come back. It's obvious he's missing having a shoulder to stand at despite having convinced himself it was independence placed him there. "Of course. Nothing good ever happens to Miss. Martyr of the Whole Bloody Mutant Race. Wouldn't be surprised if you only pretended to take the cure, add a few lines onto your sob story so people don't ask why you've chosen that road over an easy escape route. You're pathetic, Marie. Really pathetic"

The childish way he's spitting out insults only adds to the unnatural vulnerability he's trying to cover up now the twin stabilisers of a firm hand and faith in some purpose have fallen away, but if the unthinkable happened and he let her pity him she'd still have to stop herself. No regrets. It's for his own good, letting him think there's nothing left, and the voice suggesting that he was better off with his bad half can go to hell. It's too much to hope he'll come running back, but she can congratulate herself that he's got no reason to run further away, and a hollow victory's still better than having to face and defeat him.

It's not like he's left her any real option other than to leave it there, every inch of the way he's watching the ice in his glass melt, defiantly not watching her even after she's turned to go, shouts out that _This conversation is over_. She could stay, but what's the point when he just wouldn't see her any more?


End file.
